


A Steadfast Heart

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Remix, Season 6 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8273864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: Jon’s body is as white as his namesake and nearly as cold. Sansa only half hears the helpless explanations of the strangers around her, Ser Davos whom she’s heard of but never met, the red priestess, the man in the corner who only grunts in agreement like the bear he resembles. They’d tried. Sansa can tell by the tension and regret in their voices, by their disappointment that’s a pale shadow of her own. What it is they’d tried, she’s not completely sure. She’s seen many things she never knew were real, but she can’t imagine anything having the power to defeat death.

  
    Warnings for allusions to show-canon abuse





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Jon/Sansa Remix, original couple: Aurora/Phillip from Sleeping Beauty. Show-based alternate reality for season 6 where Sansa arrives at the Wall before Jon has been resurrected (for amusement purposes, please imagine Melisandre as Flora, Davos as Fauna, and Tormund as Merryweather).

There was a time in Sansa’s life when disappointment was a stranger to her. It seems so long ago now, far distant enough to seem more like a dream than her own life. To be sure, she’d felt unhappinesses then, and had thought them to be as keen as knives with the same conviction her young heart brought to believing in songs and tales, but they’d only been a child’s injustices. That long ago day they’d ridden south out of Winterfell, Sansa’s hopes had been higher than the snow-heavy clouds in the sky; she hadn’t known then how deep disappointment could cut.

She’s had ample opportunity to learn since then, yet she can’t recall any disappointment cutting as deeply as this.

Jon’s body is as white as his namesake and nearly as cold. Sansa only half hears the helpless explanations of the strangers around her, Ser Davos whom she’s heard of but never met, the red priestess, the man in the corner who only grunts in agreement like the bear he resembles. They’d tried. Sansa can tell by the tension and regret in their voices, by their disappointment that’s a pale shadow of her own. What it is they’d tried, she’s not completely sure. She’s seen many things she never knew were real, but she can’t imagine anything having the power to defeat death.

They’re gone now, all but Ghost who lies on the floor so still and silent he could be dead as well, but for the slight rise and fall of his breathing. Sansa supposes it’s not really Jon there on the table, not anymore, but it’s so unlike the death she’s seen before. There’s no agony, no pain, no bodies disappearing into the sky or beneath the waves. Jon looks nearly peaceful, as if he only sleeps. As if he could wake up any moment, eyes wide with shock to see her there. Something in her wants to prod him with a finger, the way she did when they were children, all piled into one bed seeking protection from the storm with Jon’s snores loud enough to drown out the thunder. She wants to pinch his arm and threaten him, saying _Wake up, wake up, they’ll burn you if they think you’re dead._ Jon is beyond caring about such things. It’s Sansa who cares. Sansa who will be more alone in the world than ever when Jon Snow is only ash and cinder.

Unbearable sadness wells in her ribcage, like a jar filling up with water. What a waste it all seems, so many lives sacrificed at the whims of grown men squabbling over thrones and power like children. Jon had been barely more than a boy the last time she’d seen him, his eyes dark and lively, his cheeks always bearing the rosy imprint of cold, no matter the weather. He’s decorated – marred – with scars now, old ones long healed and new wounds still congealed with blood. What he must have been through in such a place as this. Even without asking him, Sansa knows he must have been disillusioned with the world he found here, one he’d had such high hopes for, such dreams of honor and noble sacrifice. For all that it took different forms, Jon had always been as much of a romantic as she. She wishes she could tell him that now. That he could tell her all he’s seen and done, that she could look at him and know that someone who cares for her and wants nothing from her looks back.

Impulsively, she leans forward, and presses her lips to his. Unbidden, tears well and leak from her eyes, slipping hotly down her cheeks. She’d thought she could cry no more after surviving Ramsay. She’d thought the world could hold nothing more painful.

At first the sound doesn’t penetrate her sorrow. Then it comes again, a groan deep enough to be inhuman, and Jon’s lips warm and move under hers, his chest shifts beneath her hand. Shocked, Sansa jerks back a few inches to find Jon’s eyes, wild and unfocused, staring at her. She hovers, frozen, and for several moments they only stare at each other, sudden strangers on the edge of terror. Jon’s eyes travel over her, though Sansa has no idea how much he sees; she couldn’t say whether death diminishes or enhances eyesight. A hysterical giggle threatens to spill out from her throat at the thought. Then Jon’s entire face softens, his hand raising to twine heavily in her hair.

“Fire,” he says in something more like a croak than a voice. Before Sansa can ask what he means, his lips are on hers again.

It’s nothing like the chaste kiss she’d pressed upon him before. This is surprising heat and barely leashed strength, the wet slide of his tongue between the lips she had parted in surprise. Something in Sansa’s stomach pitches and swoops, the way it had when she’d traveled aship to the Vale. It’s a curious feeling, one that frightens and intrigues her in equal measure. Then she remembers all at once that this is her half-brother, that he just came back from the _dead_ and she backs away, her scalp stinging from the tug of his still-entangled hand.

She must have made some sort of sound, because as Jon sits up on the pallet, the door opens behind her and the others rush in, all of them gathering around Jon as his lungs work like a bellows. Sansa is forgotten as they help him to his feet, his legs buckling under the weight of renewed life. It’s just as well; this has all been a bit much to handle. They help him out the door, Davos under one arm and the bear man - Tormund - under the other. Just before they leave, his eyes find hers over Tormund’s shoulder and the memory of his kiss blazes into life on her lips again. Whether he thinks of the kiss too – whether he’s even still Jon now – Sansa doesn’t know. All she knows is that things that once seemed impossible are now true: Ramsay will never touch her again. The world is full of magic. A man can come back from the dead. And the memory of Jon Snow’s kiss will linger on Sansa’s tongue longer than she wants. The world is not the same place that it was. Sansa isn’t sure if that’s bad or good.


End file.
